


Credo In Un Dio Crudel

by krityan



Category: Prince of Tennis
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Mild Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-13
Updated: 2009-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krityan/pseuds/krityan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sanada POV</p><p>"I believe in a cruel God, who has created me in his image and whom, in hate, I name."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Credo In Un Dio Crudel

**Author's Note:**

> Read this in a college writing class once. It was AWESOME.

I'd never mean to hurt.

Something about his weakness makes me worry.

That I've seen him as weak makes me angry, and I lash out at myself. But whenever I do, it's never my face shattered in the mirror, but softer features, round teal eyes looking out with those deep complexities of emotion. Staring at me with an accusing look, but I can't understand why there's so much pity behind it as well.

Sometimes, I can smell the other people who have touched him.

"Sanada." He rests his head on my shoulder, and I know he's tired again, but something in his voice speaks soft memories of longer days than this. Maybe he's cold. I'd wrap my arms around him, but there's more distance than you'd guess.

I listen to him breath instead. It's a steady rhythm of sighs and rasps, coughs and clean quiet air.

I think he wonders if I love him; or if I hate him. If I feel sorry for him and this is my own sick brand of pity. The way he breathes, it sounds like crying.

I can't help but touch him, it's awckward; but I run my fingers through his hair anyway.

I want to see him victimized because black leather matches that pale skin so well, and he's beautiful on his knees. It's wrong, but I see every inch of it as my hands slide down his back.

I let them drop to my sides.

He leans away from he again, his warmth pulling away and the soft-silk of his hair gone from my shoulder.

And he's looking at me again.

I'm almost afraid he'll talk to me, because I never know what to say. Sometimes I don't even hear him, I'm lost somewhere else.

But sometimes, I want to hear him scream.


End file.
